The Bratva's Captive (Wicked Doms 3)

My guard stands, looming over the table, his phone to his ear. He holds up a finger to me to indicate that he's stepping out to take the call and will be right back. I nod. I wonder if everything's okay, as it's unusual for him to go outside the café.

Maiya takes her coffee and tips her head to the side. "Just think about it," she says. "Call me if you change your mind!" She waves and leaves the cafe. It's late at night, well after dusk, and the café is strangely empty. A feeling of unease begins to settle in my stomach when I realize the silence in here is almost eerie. The café is usually full even at this late hour, filled with students trying to cram before a test or finish an essay but there is not only no one inside, there's no one even lingering outside the doors. I glance at the glass-paneled door, apprehension prickling along my neck.

Where is my guard? I don't even know his name. My father won't allow me more than necessary information when it comes to the men who work for him. But instead of my guard returning, the door swings open, and a large, burly man, bearded, with dark brown hair steps in. His eyes meet mine and a shiver of fear skates down my back.

I should be afraid. He's so big, so strong, and there's an air of danger about him I can't ignore. But my initial panic gives way when my heart does a crazy little skip in my chest. This man is hot.

And maybe I like that he's a little dangerous.

Since I've lived with my father, I've had to be the good girl who doesn't take risks. But I'm an adult now, and maybe a part of me wants to live a little dangerously.

He takes up the whole door frame with his massive body, and when he enters, he seems to take all the air in the room with him.

He's so stern looking, the breath freezes in my lungs. So large, I feel small and fragile. Easily a decade my senior, I shouldn't even be looking at this man the way I am. One crazy, irrational thought comes to my mind when he approaches the counter: this man could protect you.

Protection, yes. Safety? No. He isn't safe at all.

Customers come in here all day long, and I never let my imagination wander like this, but something... instinct, maybe? Something tells me to pay attention to this man.

"Hello," he greets in Russian. His voice is deep and warm, and the initial apprehension I first felt when I saw him quickly disappears when he gives me a captivating grin, revealing straight white teeth and full lips. "All alone tonight?" My skin warms at his greeting. Hope blossoms in my chest like reluctant daisies peaking heavenward. Fragile but eager.

"Hello," I say shyly, dipping my head. "Yes. It's quiet tonight."

He wears a long-sleeved navy-blue t-shirt that does nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders and his large, muscled arms. Just the very tip of a tattoo peaks out from his collar, but I can't see much else. His shoulders and chest taper to a narrow waist, and dark, faded jeans hang low on his hips.

I'm not used to being in the presence of men like him. He makes the guys I go to school with look like little boys. I swallow hard, looking down at his hands. I imagine what it would be like to feel those large, powerful, confident hands on my body. I shiver.

Twenty-one years old and still a virgin, I have... issues. Hell, maybe I should consider going to the party with Maiya.

I suddenly realize he's standing at the counter waiting for me while I'm lost in thought. "Can I help you, sir?"

I risk a look back up at him. For one brief second, his gaze darkens, but he quickly schools his features. Leaning across the counter with his large forearms supporting him, he says in a low voice, "Do you call all your male customers sir? Or just me?"

I blink, taken aback by his question. Something hot and thrilling stirs in my chest.

Sir.

Master.

This is no mere boy to spend time with. This is a man who commands respect and obedience. Hell, a crazy, irrational part of my mind feels like he's controlling the very beat of my heart. He raises a brow, like a stern schoolmaster, reminding me that he's asked a question,

A pulse aches low in my belly. He hasn't even touched me, and our exchange is the most sexual thing I've experienced all semester. Okay, ever.

"I don't call the boys who come in here 'sir,'" I whisper. There is something about him that made the word come to me without conscious thought. I clear my throat. "Only the men."